Soulless
by Macx
Summary: They have a new case that is as bizarre as it is puzzling. It's also a case that reveals something about her partner to Detective Lizzie Needham she might never have figured out on her own. Strangely, it simply completes the picture she had of Dylan Reinhart, ex-CIA paramilitary case officer. It makes so much sense, even if she now has a million more questions...
1. Chapter 1

Those of you who have read my past fic know I love to create AUs of a show I fall head over heels for. After an extremely long dry spell and writer's block that wasn't funny anymore (and even several good movies couldn't break), I stumbled into Instinct. Another tiny fandom again! I'm surprised there aren't more stories for it by now!

I've been watching the season backwards and forwards, I'm so in love with it and the characters! It's addictive and I'm incredibly happy it gets a second season.

So I did what I always do: wrote an AU, with a little twist, of course.

Since this is an AU, some things from the show didn't happen, some I interpreted my own way.

I started writing before Lizzie got to know Julian, so that's not happening here.

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The room was quiet, the light of the waning day casting shadows across the room, battled by the lights fluorescing everywhere. The 11th precinct was never quiet, but now and then the noise quieted a little and the whole atmosphere changed, was less electric, almost muted.

November had come in with cold fronts and nasty winds, sometimes brief showers, erasing all the brief joy of the prior, more golden October. The weather didn't help to lessen the number of cases or gave the homicide division easier ones. Halloween alone had had the calls spike in frequency. Just like every year. It was the time where the crazy became even more crazy, even more bizarre, and it multiplied. Most had been noise disturbances, neighborly disputes or pranks that had gone out of hand. The usual stuff.

Now and then a homicide case came their way, but it was their job. One such case had been a spousal dispute on Halloween that had ended with a dead zombie bride wife and the Steampunk undertaker husband confessing to slamming a kitchen appliance over her head in his rage.

Because… because of something laughably small like a missed recording of some obscure b-movie. Things had escalated and finally ended in one death and one horrified perp. The man had been in such shock, he had hidden himself in his basement work room where unis hadn't looked in the first sweep of the apartment complex.

Harris had closed that one quite easily.

No three days later, a new murder had come in and the case had been assigned to Detective Elizabeth Needham. Apparent B&E with a body and no obvious signs of a forced entry. The wife had been killed by the suspect or suspects unknown, with the husband grievously injured and unconscious next to her.

There were no leads.

Their only witness was the husband and he was in a coma.

Then a second B&E with a body and a seriously injured spouse had been called in.

Lizzie had decided to call her consultant away from his job and his private life, not to mention the second book he was supposed to be writing.

Again there had been no signs of how the killer had gotten in, one was dead, his husband bleeding, unconscious, barely hanging on to life.

And with number three, the same MO, in just as many days, matters were getting more intense.

The mayor wanted answers.

So wanted the lieutenant.

Well, and Lizzie herself.

Her partner was as always fascinated by it all.

Currently, the desk opposite her own was stacked with the files from all three cases. A laptop peeked out among the folders, running a screen saver. She looked up from her own computer where she had been running through the statements once more, stretching her cramping back a little. Her eyes fell on her 'study partner', who was pouring over a stack of printed pages, brows lightly furrowed behind his black-rimmed, round glasses. He was deeply immersed, absolutely in his element.

And he was still one of the most puzzling, aggravating, invested and downright loyal partners she had ever had. Everything about him was one contradiction after another. Every time she thought she had him, the man threw her again.

Dr. Dylan Reinhart was as enigmatic as he was absolutely open when it came to personal information sometimes. He had readily confirmed her guess about his past career as a CIA agent and voluntarily told her he had been paramilitary. He hadn't hidden being gay; about being married. She knew his academic career inside out. He had an impressive resume that filled pages. She had had lunches and dinners, once even breakfast, with him and his husband Andy. She found them an extremely cute couple, clearly connected on so many levels, very much newly-weds in a million tiny ways, and seasoned partners in another million more.

But there was another side, too. Mostly connected to his past. He kept secrets, though he never lied. He obfuscated, guided her line of thought and questions away from something too close to home. Or he simply didn't answer – in words, but his expression said it all. Not to mention that he had that super special secret friend who helped out on cases.

Physically he didn't strike anyone as a tough as nails ex-soldier. He was very much the odd ball college professor type, right down to the Harry Potter glasses and sense of dress. She had seen him empathetic, caring, very much involved, taking things personally, memories triggered by small snippets from a victim's or perpetrator's past.

She had become accustomed to him being her consultant, her partner. Lizzie couldn't think of working a case without him and his input.

Dylan Reinhart might not be a police officer, but he was everything she needed, and more. As unorthodox as he operated, as aggravating and aberrant in his behavior he sometimes was on a case, their results spoke for themselves. And their personal relationship was closer to her than many of the ones she had with her work colleagues.

"Thoughts?" she asked.

Dylan looked up, blinking at her as if she had startled him out of his own deep thoughts.

She probably had.

The case was bizarre.

"Too many. Our victims, and the perp's targets, are all happily married couples. None have ever been involved in any illegal or criminal activities, had hardly a parking ticket, and there have never been any threats against any of them. Only one partner or spouse is killed; the other left alive, though seriously injured."

She nodded. There had been updates from the hospitals. One had lost an arm. Another surviving partner was now blind in one eye.

"All have been together for a minimum of twenty-eight years," Dylan went on. "All have no children. No divorcees either. All have known their spouse since high school or college."

Lizzie knew from the questions asked among neighbors and friends that the couples had each married their first love.

"I don't think it's a hate crime of any sort. Our suspect is trying to destroy what he perceives as absolute happiness and perfection," Dylan mused. "He leaves one partner behind to suffer from the loss. Alone, because there are no children. To feel the loss even more." His fingers drummed on the case files.

Lizzie nodded slowly. "You think he punishes them for something?"

"Three victims, three similar, apparently happy lives. He might punish them for the happiness they had."

She frowned. "But they're not connected in any way we could find. That means it was random. And that makes it close to impossible to find him."

The fingers stilled and he met her eyes.

"Maybe they weren't picked randomly. Maybe there is a commonality our victims aren't aware of."

Lizzie looked at the mountain of paper and groaned silently. All the interviews were there, all the collected statements from family, friends and neighbors. So far there had been absolutely nothing for anyone to go on. Even their bank statements didn't help. Only two had used the same bank in the past. Two were using online services. One was spreading his savings among several investment plans, two were regular savers.

This was one of those cases. So much information and they needed to thin out the non-apparent commonalities. Like a doctor they had all once gone to. A clinic they had been treated in. Maybe just a supermarket or a park they frequented. Maybe just an event they had all been to.

It was crazy.

She would have to spread out the work among her colleagues if they wanted to have at least a chance to handle this.

"Any ideas?" she asked.

Dylan let his eyes roam over all the files they had already gathered. "I wish."

Great.

"Not even a hunch?"

He grimaced, looking apologetic. "I know. It's new for me. But these families share nothing at all. Destroying perceived perfect happiness is a theme. Our perpetrator might have killed before. We should be looking into past cases, probably cold cases."

"You know how to brighten my day," she muttered, quite aware how much work that would put on top of the already dangerously high mountain.

He grinned. "I aim to please."

Lizzie was very close to just sticking out her tongue, but she was too professional to give in to the childish notion. There was a teasing light in Dylan's dark eyes and she knew he was perfectly well reading her.

The downside of working with a psychologist and trained professional in behavior analysis and apparently mind-reading.

"Any idea why he might target them, aside from the perfect life? Not that there is anything as simple as a perfect life."

"It could be the only reason why he targets them," Dylan told her. "These people have known each other for all their lives. Some were high school sweet hearts. They had their ups and downs in life, but they never experienced loss or anything dramatic. There was never any monetary problem, an overdrawn credit line they couldn't manage or a foreclosure. None of their relatives have died. Their parents are alive and well. They are all childless, but not unhappy."

"And he destroys it."

He nodded. "Probably to punish. Most likely because he wants someone else to experience what he went through."

"We're looking for someone with a similar background who lost their significant other. That's still a needle in a haystack, if that's the correct profile."

Another nod.

She blew out a breath.

Her phone startled her out of her thoughts and she felt dread rise inside her at the caller ID. As she listened to her colleague she caught Dylan's eyes. His expression had grown alert and slightly apprehensive.

"Another one," she told her partner as she hung up grabbed her coat. "Langley Ross, insurance sales manager, found dead in his home office. His wife Grace is in critical condition on her way to the hospital."

Dylan was already on his feet, coat in hand.

Outside it had gone dark, the clouds threatening another shower. The wind was as cold as it had been all day.

Lizzie flipped up her collar and hurried to her car, Dylan in tow.

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The atmosphere at Rafter's was as always warm and inviting, the mix of stone walls, the wooden bar and furniture just the right kind of business and home feel. It was shelter from the bad weather that had come in late last night and hadn't let up the whole day. Dylan had had the displeasure of driving to an early morning lecture in the rain, after spending most of the evening before looking at the Ross crime scene, listening to the few witness statements – no one really saw anything – and then going over Lizzie's notes again.

There was still no lead.

It was… aggravating.

The moment he stepped into the bar, part of him relaxed completely, at home, soaking up the warmth of Andy's home away from home. He was cheerfully greeted by the waitresses and nodded his hello in return.

Dylan took a spot at the bar, out of the way of paying customers, and let himself just… be.

"Bad case?"

He met the warm, brown eyes of his husband as a drink was put in front of him. Part of him had been acutely aware of the other man's approach, his very presence, and he hadn't been startled by the drink and the words.

"Well…" he hedged.

Andy gave him that quirky half-smile, open and inviting, just like his whole body language. He would have an open ear should Dylan want to use him as a sounding board or just to ramble about something that went completely over the former lawyer's head. The compassion and empathy was real; it had always been real.

Dylan had had to learn that Andrew Wilson was exactly what he presented to the outside world, that nothing was a cover or smoke and mirrors. He was this grounding, down-to-earth person, made friends easily, felt right at home among people he hadn't even met before, and he was soft-hearted. It was why he hadn't pursued his career. He was a damn good lawyer, he didn't shy away from challenges, knew all the lingo, had a head for these kind of things, but he was also a warm human being. He wasn't a shark. A predator. He wanted to help people, not destroy lives by finding loop holes for wealthy clients.

Opening the bar hadn't just been a long-time dream and his way out of a cut-throat environment, it was also his calling. Rafter's was only successful because of the man who ran it.

Andy loved people.

He wanted them around himself.

His whole persona, his very energy, was inviting, drawing the regulars back with new clients.

Dylan… well, he had been taught not to trust, to always analyze the situation, be wary, not make friends, stay at the fringe and observe.

Andy squeezed one wrist and Dylan smiled, focusing on the sole point of contact and the thoughts about his past dissipated into nothingness.

"Bad case," Andy just stated knowingly, lips twitching as he answered his own question, since Dylan had apparently taken too long to get out of his own head.

"No. Yes. In a way. Frustrating, mostly. There are no leads, no commonalities between the victims, their spouses or their families, and only new victims. He destroys lives, through both a violent death and the suffering of the surviving partner."

"And you can't figure out why."

"The why is not the problem. I have a few theories about the why."

"Not surprising." Andy grinned at his look, slinging a towel over one shoulder. He leaned forward, palms on the bar top. "That big brain of yours isn't happy with just one theory. When you run on all cylinders, it's like fireworks inside your head. You want to immerse yourself. It's what you do. It's what you need to do. You curbed that instinct long enough."

"Curbed?" he echoed mildly.

Andy's face reflected nothing but fondness mixed with amusement. "I know you, Dylan. You can't lock it all up forever. You need this." He pointedly raised his eyebrows.

"No."

"Riiight. Uh-huh. Nah. Nope." Andy actually popped the 'p'. "Not believing it."

He barely suppressed a sigh.

"And it's good that you don't. It's your nature," his husband went on. "It's you. It's Dylan. Not one of the many other hats you wear."

He gazed into the well of calmness reflected in Andy's eyes. Yes, that was him. Just Dylan. Not his former training, his old profession, his old life, or even his new one. It was what he had always been good at.

"I made you a promise."

"I know. And you're keeping it. Working with the NYPD? It's done wonders for you. You're really happy with it, you want it, you look forward to it. Letting part of your nature finally peek out from behind the locked doors?" Andy squeezed his hand. "That's the Dylan I married. That's you."

Dylan squeezed back, the turmoil inside him lessening a little more now.

They had talked about his consultant work and Andy was on board with it, but taking it a step closer to what he had been, what he had always been and couldn't deny, was something else.

"Stop holding back," Andy advised calmly. "It doesn't mean you're back in the old game. I know you won't ever go back."

No, he wouldn't. Julian's offer to freelance aside, there was nothing for him back in his old life. And freelancing would definitely take him back there. He might be working three jobs at the moment, but those were jobs he enjoyed; some days more, some days less, especially when it came to writer's block.

"Thank you," he whispered.

Andy beamed at him. "So, bad case?" he prompted.

"I can't figure out how he chooses his victims," Dylan sighed, trying to ignore the feelings of aggravation and frustration inside him, and sounding as annoyed as he felt. "How he can know so much about each couple? It makes no sense! I can't wrap my head around it. You don't get this kind of information through random conversations or just watching someone. You need more. Access to their homes, asking them detailed, intimate question, and so on. They share no friends or doctors, some don't even use social media, while others only have random conversations through not so common apps or websites. Only one couple shared their whole life, every moment of it, on various websites."

"Frustrating about sums it up," Andy said, exchanging his empty glass for one with simply water with a slice of lime.

"Yeah."

"You want a bite to eat before we head home?"

"Here or…?"

"Your choice." Andy raised his eyebrows.

Dylan glanced at the menu board and found too many things that appealed to him. Andy chuckled and plonked cutlery wrapped in a napkin on the bar.

"I'll get you the special."

"Mind-reader."

"Hey, that's what we barmen are for. Listen to your sorrows as we wipe the counter, nodding sagely and giving you a way to unload. I might even have a few wise words for you."

Dylan laughed, soaking in the bright smile, enjoying the banter. "You have found your calling."

It got him one of those sweet smiles, then his husband was off to serve more drinks and take food orders, too.

Dylan opened his notebook, jotting down ideas, working out a chapter of his next book while another part of his brain was turning the case over and over. It helped to distract himself. It helped the book, it helped the cases. Joan was more than happy that he was finally getting back into the groove, as she put it, and Dylan was happy to have overcome his writer's block.

Well, it wasn't really a block. He had written a book that Joan had called all kinds of names, so it was now gathering dust on his hard drive.

The new premise was better, she said. So much more exciting, and right now it was almost writing itself. Two chapters had already been turned in and number three was almost finished.

A plate appeared in front of him and Andy grinned knowingly, nodding at the pages he had outlaid.

"Back in the flow?"

Dylan gave him a quirky little smile of his own. "Apparently."

"Joan will be ecstatic."

"Hopefully. She keeps getting new and more and more outrageous ideas."

"You're her prized author, Dylan."

He grimaced.

Andy's smile grew. "Told you. You have more than one book in you. More than two or three. That mind of yours is a bottomless well."

'A worthy effort'. That was all his father had had to say about his book. Like Dylan had been a worthy effort. An investment. Not a human being.

He pushed those thoughts away. Andy's brows had lowered a little, probably too aware of what was on his mind. It was one of his many talents when it came to Dylan Reinhart. He knew, like reading his mind, or just his emotions; he simply knew.

"Don't let him in," the younger man said softly. "Never again. Eat. Work. I'll have a little while longer until shift end, then I'm free for the night."

So he did just that.

And thoughts of his father stayed outside.

tbc...


	2. Chapter 2

The bar was packed within an hour of Dylan's arrival and he watched the people around him, mind far away and pondering the puzzling case.

His phone had been eerily quiet. There had been no new texts or even just a brief call from Lizzie. It was a good thing, because it meant there had been no new bodies. It was also a bad thing, because there were no leads from the latest one. Everyone was still sifting through whatever evidence they had gathered, even the smallest pieces, trying to connect the victims.

So far: nothing.

So Dylan had stayed at the bar, eating excellent food, enjoying the atmosphere, writing his latest chapter, sometimes scribbling notes whenever a thought about the case hit him, only to be discarded.

The flow of people never ebbed and with the TV screens showing a game, Dylan knew it would be a good night for business. He had no idea who was playing, what league or group or even if it was national or international. Sports kept the clientele here, eating and drinking, having a good time.

For a while he watched the screen, the players, the statistics and predictions flashing through, but he wasn't really taking part in the excitement. His mind was elsewhere and he let himself just sink into the enthusiasm that was strangely stimulating and giving him a few good paragraphs.

No one paid much attention to him, though. Regulars knew he was Andy's significant other. Non-regulars were glued to their drinks and the screens, and with Dylan sitting a little out of the way, there was no one actively trying to engage him in conversation.

"You really want to leave?" he asked when Andy started to pack up his things.

"Sure. Why not?"

Dylan nodded at the full place.

"It's not a major game, just something to keep the crowds entertained and in the mood. Frank and the others can handle it. There's more than enough staff tonight and we have a bar menu only."

"I wouldn't mind."

"You would. It's not your thing and never will be, but that's fine. And it's our at home together night. The bar's schedule doesn't include me and all my staff is there. They'd kick me out on the curb for dumping you tonight."

Dylan felt that by now so very familiar tingle associated with the affection Andy projected, that very real love and desire to be with his husband.

"I want to go home, Dylan. Just the two of us. You working on your stuff, I watching a game..." He winked. "Home life."

"Andy…"

Andy interlaced their fingers. "I know this case is going to bother you until you solve it, Dylan. That's who you are. That is what you are. I knew that getting into this marriage. You haven't changed in that regard, because when you wrote your book, it was the same way. You're the brainy guy with a love for classical music. And you know I love sports, while, emotionally, you have no idea about what that means. Still, you watch it with me. Cheering in all the wrong situations."

Indignation rose inside him, quelled by the delighted expression in the other's eyes. Teasing. Andy was teasing.

 _iI love you_ /i, he thought.

The way Andy beamed at him, he had read the words.

"C'mon. Home."

Yes, home.

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When they arrived at their house, Dylan headed for his study and the murder board. It was a completely automatic move and he didn't really think about it until maybe thirty minutes into his study of all the facts and speculations pinned to the wall.

His heart sank a little at the realization of what had happened. "Andy…" he started when the man walked in, carrying a soda and a cup of tea.

Andy held up a hand. "Nope. Don't." He gestured at the murder board that held a few bloody and very descriptive images. "Go on. Do your stuff. This is your magic." He put down the drinks.

God, he loved this man, Dylan thought. So very, very much.

"There's a game on and I want to catch up on some other stuff." His husband grinned boyishly. "Now go find the murderer."

Dylan cupped his face and kissed him; more than just a peck. It relayed everything he felt and his appreciation for who and what Andy was.

"Yes, sir."

It got him an even wider grin, then Andy was gone. Dylan gazed at the space where he had just been, then turned back to the board.

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It was around midnight that Andy was back and sat himself next to the other man on the couch, gently bumping shoulders as if to startle Dylan out of his zone.

"Nothing?"

Dylan took off the glasses and rubbed his eyes. He felt exhausted on such a deep level, he knew he had overdone it, had probably stretched himself too thin in an attempt to make sense of the unconnected murders.

Part of him wondered if they were actually dealing with cases that weren't connected at all, despite the many similarities.

The ache in his head reminded him that even he couldn't run on forever, needed to relax, take it easy, let himself recover.

"Nothing concrete," he said with a sigh, almost sounding disgusted by his lack of answers to their puzzle. "Whatever comes to mind doesn't work on all couples. Maybe we don't have all the information yet. I feel like I'm missing something big. It's right there and I can't see it!"

"You actually sound excited. It's a challenge to you on so many levels," Andy stated, a knowing smile on his lips.

Dylan grimaced. "You really do know me too well."

Only because the former agent had opened up to him in the first place, feeling comfortable with this man. His own actions had startled Dylan at first, then it had become almost an addiction. Andy was comfort, home, sanctuary from a world that sometimes wanted to eat him alive. He was a quiet harbor to his mind and relaxed his body.

Dylan could be himself.

Only himself.

Leaning into the sturdy form, Dylan let the case slip away, feel only his husband. Andy felt like a tether in a stormy sea that threatened to batter him against rocks and then drown him.

"You going to sleep on me?" Andy asked, laughter and mock-outrage in his voice.

"It's a good place to sleep."

"Sap."

He smiled more. Andy wrapped an arm around his shoulders and pulled him even closer. Both men slid a little deeper into the old leather and Dylan turned to press his face against Andy's chest. He closed his eyes, though his mind didn't really switch off. It was still running through the facts, trying to understand why the victims had been chosen, apparently at random but still with such intent and intimate knowledge of their relationships.

Andy's fingers started to play with his hair, probably not even aware of the affectionate caresses. Dylan almost sighed in contend, his whole being mellowing more and more, until even his mind finally dialed down completely.

That's what his husband did to him.

He was special. It was his magic.

Dylan had always known, but these moments really drove it home. Everything about him started to float a little, the only anchor the man next to him, his scent, his strength.

"Time for bed," Andy murmured, his voice breaking into the almost meditative state.

Dylan grunted. "Five more minutes."

It got him a chuckle.

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They made it to bed a little while later and Dylan curled into the arms of his husband, eyes sliding shut, body relaxing. Andy pressed a kiss to his head.

He was out like a light not much later.

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Dylan smiled fondly as he watched Andy shuffle into the room, wearing pajama bottoms and an old team t-shirt. It was washed out, the writing barely legible, and 'ratty' might be the best description for it. It was a shirt Andy had owned even before they had met and that had been a lot more colorful at the time. He loved it, refused to buy a new one, even if it was with the same print, and Dylan just humored him.

"You're up."

"Brilliant observation," he teased as the other man made a bee-line for the cup of coffee.

Andy kissed him on the cheek, then plopped into the chair next to Dylan's. He glanced at the tablet and suppressed a yawn. He had the evening shift today, which meant he didn't really have to b at Rafter's until noon. It was when he did the books, went through whatever shopping he still had to do, and generally planned out the following weeks.

"You have a class," he commented.

"Yes. Sadly. I'd rather stay in with you."

Dylan glanced at the dark sky outside, the droplets of rain sliding down the panes. It was ten in the morning and still didn't look like any later than six a.m.

Andy gave him a commiserating look. "Call in sick?" he teased as he reached for an apple and bit into it.

Dylan scowled. Andy just leaned over and kissed him again, lips tasting of coffee and apples.

"Take the car. Your students might get a laugh out of their professor looking like a wet dog, but you know you'll be miserable all day."

He chuckled and closed down his work. "Wise words." Dylan got up from his chair.

"Hey, barman here." Andy spread his arms. "I even advise for free, in my private time."

"Good for me then."

Dylan ran a tender caress along his husband's back, then headed off to grab the rest of his things.

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Her consultant had Abnormal Psych classes in the morning and office hours after that. Lizzie brought a late pizza lunch. She knew it would get her one of those looks, that mild smirk coupled with raised eyebrows, though she had remembered to bring a plate and cutlery.

That had him smile, almost proud, as if she had been taught a new trick and remembered it.

"Don't even start," she muttered and pushed the box over to his side. "And no cheap excuses, like you're not doing carbs right now."

So they shared lunch, Dylan using the cutlery, Lizzie as always refusing to do so and eating her pizza by hand.

There had been little to no news, and interviews were still on-going. Grace Ross was in the ICU, but she was stable and would survive. She might not regain full use of her left hand. The doctors said it was too early to tell. No one was allowed to talk to her, but Lizzie didn't think she would gain much more insight. Uniforms were repeatedly canvassing the neighborhood, talking to whoever might have seen or heard something. Others had returned to the three old crime scenes, looking for anyone who might have remembered something.

"This is painful," Dylan murmured. "To lose so much, to suffer like that on your own, knowing your loved one was killed, probably with you watching, and then return to an empty house with so many memories. The perp is both heartless and in extreme pain. He disassociates from his victims, pouring himself into his work, reflecting his pain onto the survivors. Probably in the hope to ease his own suffering. It doesn't work, so he continues in the hope that one day it will."

Something constricted painfully inside her and she pushed it away. Charlie was her past and he would always be; good memories and bad.

"This is bringing up bad memories for you," Dylan stated.

"And for you," she countered almost defensively.

He shared a commiserating smile. "With me it's just a 'what if'. I never experienced such grief myself before."

And for her it had happened. Just not like it had for those couples. Charlie had died in the line of duty, the others had been murdered by some crazy guy with a grudge or whatever was driving him to kill.

"So how do we find that guy?" Lizzie asked, voice hard, refusing to be baited into deeply emotional discussions about personal loss.

Not now.

She knew she could trust Dylan like no one else, had always felt that ease with him, but it wasn't the time.

"We need to find the commonality."

"Everyone's working on it, but we haven't discovered a single common place they frequented. Gyms, evening classes, supermarkets, restaurants, theaters, pools, hotels. Nothing."

Something flashed over Dylan's face and he suddenly sat up straighter. It was like he had been hit by lightning, a flash of realization as his brain had finally worked through the vast abyss of data.

"What if it wasn't something they went to, but something that came to them?"

She raised both brown. "The mailman? Newspapers? We checked the mail services already, public and private. And not all had daily newspapers or magazine subscriptions." She felt a lightbulb moment coming. "Deliveries."

He nodded, a slow smile crossing his lips.

Lizzie mirrored it.

The hunt was back on.

tbc...


	3. Chapter 3

They had a name forty-eight hours later. Forty-eight mostly sleepless hours, even on Dylan's part. Everyone had sifted through all the data, the witness statements, bank accounts, emails, subscriptions and credit card statements. There had been a frustratingly large amount of deliveries, and not all from the same company, the same business or even ordered through the same website.

Andy gave Dylan mild scowls as he puzzled over the data, gently pushed him into at least taking a break now and then, but he didn't lecture or berate.

He was supportive.

It was what he did. And Dylan loved him more than he had ever thought possible. The hand on his neck, the gentle squeeze to a wrist, it all helped in focusing him, bringing him out of what his husband sometimes called a zone.

Because his brain was running a million miles, leaving the rest of the world behind.

Andy managed to break that run, had him slow down, fed him, watered him, put him to bed, as he joked.

Lizzie's call that they had a name had been a relief and a new dread in one. It had been Harris who had found a common name, hidden within the data they had, and it had, in a way, been sheer, dumb luck.

Neill Rucco, fifty-two, widower, self-employed, running a delivery service that worked for various restaurants and other businesses that didn't have their own vehicles or simply outsourced to his company. He didn't have any employees, ran his routes while his wife handled the office, and only used temps when he had too much to do in a too short amount of time. From the sheets of deliveries to all families, there had been only two occasions with a temp driver.

It was one reason why they hadn't stumbled over him. The families had ordered from various businesses, though all kinds of websites, not all had used Rucco, and those who had, issued their bills directly all the time. Rucco's name never came up on any bills or transactions. The man had been invisible. He had been in and out of his victims' homes and he had probably gotten to know his clients' clients over the years.

Harris had gone as far as talking to one of the survivors, asking about Neill Rucco, and the man had been quite taken by the man. He had been polite, their regular delivery driver for close to five years, and his late wife had often given Rucco gifts for holidays. And yes, they had talked about family, life, work, whatever, chatting with the man as he had unloaded whatever he had delivered and even carried into their homes. He had been courteous and always nice.

Rucco was also squeaky clean. No priors, not even a parking ticket, with a spotless record up until he had founded his own business eleven years ago, together with his wife. Before that he had been employed by the military.

That had Dylan's attention.

Military.

So he dug deeper. Well, he asked one of his contacts as he ran into a few walls and locked files.

Julian Cousins.

His, as Lizzie called him, super secret special friend.

XnXnXnX

Three hours later he received a reply.

XnXnXnXXnXnXnX

"Looks like you found kin," Julian commented as he sent him a link, Dylan's phone vibrating twice as it received the email.

Something inside the former CIA agent perked up. Simultaneously dread rose inside him. "Explain."

"Low-level. Wouldn't be CIA material, though sometimes they're desperate enough for canon fodder, as we both know."

Dylan grimaced. Yes, he did. Those who didn't test well enough, those with a few basic skills but enough talent got used as runners, distractions and maybe even expendables. It had been nothing but the truth when he had told his father that their work was sometimes rather immoral.

"Anything on the wife?"

"It was just an accident. A drunk driver hit her, pushed her into a ditch, she wasn't found in time. Severe cranial bleeding. Tragic but no hit." Julian's voice was level, completely matter-of-fact. Where Dylan felt sympathy, even empathy, his freelancing contact had no such problems. "He isn't high on anyone's list and got discharged after regular service. The military didn't mark the wife as a possible asset either, so if they were more… let's say, in sync, it never mattered for the military. Useful, but not prime material for deeper operations or more sensitive cases. Her presence in his life as a partner didn't elevate his status any further. When he left the service his file was closed, but not marked as redacted or even blackened. Normal guy."

Dylan closed his eyes, the sounds of the street around him almost disappearing into what felt like white noise. Julian's even words, while true, irked him to a degree. Neill Rucco hadn't been just someone's tool; discharged because he was no longer useful. He had been a loving husband, devoted to the one person in his life who had been his perfect match. His wife had died tragically and part of him was gone. A very big part.

"He's killing people because of his loss," he said out loud, voice sounding almost far away. "I believe Neill and his wife were close. As close as he could ever be with another human soul, even on such a low level. Losing that… It would be amplified for him, leaving him with only half of what he was before."

"The human mind is your specialty. It's not like you can speak from experience in that regard, my friend. It would be hard for to even imagine this kind of… soul-cutting grief."

Dylan's lips became a thin line and his eyes narrowed briefly, the little jab was… not painful, just a reminder. He could never feel that pain, come even close to it, and he couldn't miss what he could never have. Still…

Dylan ended the call and studied the file Julian had sent him. Nothing stood out, aside from how simple Rucco's life had been, how perfectly happy, and what a sweet couple they were. Had been.

It fit the profile.

Married for over thirty years to his high school sweetheart. Love of his life. They had had no children. All his victims fit the same profile. Taking happiness from others as it had been taken from him. Something had broken inside the man with Rachel's death and he had singled out specific couples.

The connection had been the delivery service; he had known his victims. Some had been his customers for ten years.

Now they had died.

Because Rachel had died.

XnXnXnXXnXnXnXXnXnXnXXnXnXnXXnXnXnXXnXnXnXXnXnXnX

It was a freezing cold day and the sun didn't even peek. People were hurrying to or from their appointments around. Tourists flocked among them, their cameras shooting pictures of every landmark, pigeon and interesting street corner. Tour busses roamed the streets, and yellow cabs were everywhere.

And in a quiet side street, in the back of a run-down, empty theater building, Detective Needham was confronting their killer. Dylan was at her side, hands away from his body, eyes firmly on the shaking man with two long hunting knives in his hands. There was a tension to the lean frame, visible even through the thick layer of winter coat and tweed jacket underneath, like a silent hum permeating the air.

"Hello, Neill," Dylan said calmly, his voice both intense and soothing in one, locking eyes with the agitated man. "My name is Dylan Reinhart. I'm here to help."

"No one can help me!" he spat. "You're just saying that! Like everyone is saying those empty words! Doctors, psychologists, psychiatrists! Even the neighbors! She's gone! No one knows how it feels! How I feel without her!"

Dylan's expression never changed, was this neutral reflection with a hint of empathy. There was nothing overly dramatic, nothing fake.

"You lost that one person, that one soul, whom you cannot imagine life without," he said quietly. "It's a pain so deep, no one could ever understand. Not even those who have felt it, too. You cannot share it, you cannot lighten it. You just feel. You think you're alone."

Neill's eyes were on Dylan, like he was mesmerized by the words. He didn't seem to realize that the man had come slowly closer and closer.

"No one understands the guilt," Reinhart went on. "Because you remain behind. Because there is this hole in your soul that can't ever be filled by anyone else again. You promised yourself not to follow, to cheapen the memory, but you want to."

By now Ruccos complexion was ashen, the whole man shaking. "You… know… you're… like me…" he stammered.

Dylan smiled, sadness in his eyes as he slowly shook his head. "No."

"But you know!"

"I know I can never have what you and Rachel had. You had a special connection. For you she was the only one."

Tears tracked down Rucco's cheeks. "I knew it from the day we met…" he whispered brokenly.

"And that is very special, Neill," Dylan went on, voice so gentle and filled with understanding. "So very, very special. You shared something with her no one else could give you. She understood you. It was instinct."

"And you…"

"No." He shook his head again. "What I found was love. You, Neill, found not only that, you found a piece of yourself that was always missing until Rachel came. I can't miss what I never had."

Lizzie, gun still trained on the perp, wanted to order Dylan away from the armed man, but she knew any word from her might break the tenuous, slightly weird connection forming between the two men. Dylan's words registered with her, niggled into her memory, but right now her brain wasn't in any shape to interpret them.

Rucco stared at her consultant as if he was trying to find something only Dylan could give. Then his eyes widened. "You're…!"

Dylan met the startled eyes and inclined his head.

"B…but… you…" A tremor went through the other man's whole frame. "Then you can't understand at all!" he snarled.

"Neill," Dylan implored.

The man's eyes were blown wide and he was shaking more. He whispered something Lizzie couldn't hear, but from the way Dylan reacted, he had heard.

"How can you say you understand?!" he almost screamed. "You're not like me! Rachel… She and I… we clicked! Just like that! I didn't think it was possible, to find that one person, but I did. We also fell in love, maybe even the moment we met. I'd like to think it was that moment. Rachel was everything… everything!"

Dylan walked slowly closer, minute steps, barely even moving at all. "And no one can ever take her place."

"No one can! I'm… it's so dark! So very, very dark now!"

Dylan's twisted a little in misery. "You can fight the darkness, Neill."

"No! No, I can't! How can you say I can?! You don't understand! You would never understand!"

Suddenly Rucco's right arm came up, the knife flashing toward Dylan in an almost clumsy move. Lizzie wanted to pull the trigger, but her partner was too close. He seemed to deliberately step in front of the other man and then their perp was on the ground, Dylan's knee between his shoulder blades, one knife on the ground, the other in Reinhart's hand.

She blinked.

Holy…

The way Dylan had disarmed and immobilized Rucco was as always at odds with the tweed jacket college professor look. Each move had been measured, powerful, reflecting his past training that he still hadn't shed.

Not at all.

And he had been incredibly quick.

That, together with his words, with Rucco's reaction, triggered something inside her, something she remembered from college, from the academy, and from the odd article here or there.

And it fit. Not the college professor, but it absolutely fit the former CIA agent.

"Please," Rucco cried. "Please, please, please… let me die. I want to die."

Suicide by cop, flashed through Lizzie's mind.

"I'm sorry, Neill," Dylan said softly. "I truly am. But destroying another's happiness is not the solution, and neither is taking your own life."

Rucco was crying harder, face twisted in suffering, and he didn't even try to resist as they cuffed him.

"There is no life without her," the distraught man whispered. "Ever. It's just darkness!"

Dylan stood back as Neill was half-carried away, lips a thin line. The knives were bagged, the scene secured. Lizzie joined him, glancing at the taller man.

"He'll need help," Dylan said softly, almost as if he was talking to himself. "Specialized, psychological help."

Her brows lowered a little. "You okay?"

He nodded once.

But he didn't look it. Pale, a little disheveled from the scuffle, still very much composed, but something had him fray at the edge. Not badly, Lizzie decided. It was simply something that had triggered within him. She had seen it in the past, with other cases, only this time it appeared to be more. Dylan had baggage and sometimes it spilled over.

But so had Lizzie and she respected his need to talk when he was ready, if he was ready, so she just squeezed one arm.

That was it.

She would offer an open ear or whatever he needed later.

tbc...


	4. Chapter 4

When Andy came home that evening it didn't take a mind-reader to see that something had happened. Dylan looked pale, drawn, almost thin. He was tight with a kind of tension that hadn't been there for almost five years. It was a tension that had been with him whenever he had been on a bad case, something that had left a nasty aftertaste, that had gone wrong in Dylan's opinion, or had been absolutely immoral.

He had never talked about his work in the beginning of their relationship. Andy hadn't really known what this interesting, intriguing and very unique man was doing. Everything had been a cover story, though he had been a professor and teacher. When it became clear that they were very much in a serious relationship, talking about living together, and even marriage, the Dylan had opened up a little. He never talked about details. He couldn't. It was top secret, some of it probably even blacklisted.

But Andy knew nevertheless. Dylan had told him enough about what it meant to do what he was doing, what he had done all his life.

And he had seen the results.

Even back then, early in their relationship, before Dylan had trusted him with the knowledge of his CIA work, Andy had been able to defuse the tension, to ground the other man in their relationship, make him take a breath and then let it go. He had known when his then-partner and now-husband had stretched himself too thin, had refused to back down until everything was done, and Andy had simply been there for a kind of support no one else seemed to be able to give Dylan.

Well, it looked like whatever had happened throughout their serial killer case, it was time to meet the waves and smooth them over.

Dylan moved stiffly, like on automatic, as he made himself coffee, and his eyes held an expression that would make lesser men run. The façade had crumbled, the university professor, the academic, was gone. In his place was who Dylan Reinhart really was.

Andy was extremely good at being whatever Dylan needed, and right now his husband needed someone to bring him back from whatever edge he was on. He needed an anchor, to bring him back, to keep him human, as Dylan sometimes whispered.

Andy had never cared about names and terms. He had only ever cared about this special person.

"Hey," he said softly, voice low and calm.

Dylan looked at him, almost startled, as if he hadn't been aware of his presence. Well, that was just another blatant sign of his husband's condition.

Andy walked over to the clearly distressed man and calmly gathered him into his arms. No hesitation. No questions.

It was Dylan who hesitated for a long second, then he suddenly had his arms around Andy, clinging to him like he needed an anchor in a rough sea.

Well, that analogy usually fit when it came to these rare moments.

The last time Dylan had given in to his very tactile nature had been with Roger's reappearance in his new life with the NYPD. Even Andy had been startled by his father in law, especially the way the older Reinhart had started to subtly drop hints, then not so subtly, up until the moment he had come out and said it loud and clear. Andy actually liked the old man, had usually no problems with him, especially since they shared interests like sports.

When the case back then had been over and Roger had flown off, Dylan had been both elated and disappointed in one. Andy had been his sounding board, his anchor and his balance all in one back then, too.

"Hey." The warm sigh signaled Dylan's return to normal and when they separated, the other man's eyes were back to their lighter color and mood. "Thank you," he whispered, hand caressing Andy's unshaven cheek. "You're magic."

Andy quirked a little smile. Dylan had told him in various ways before; that he needed Andy, to stay focused on being anything but the Dylan underneath the professor exterior. Being that person for a brief time was one thing, becoming him for a longer period was problematic. It was something Dylan was still scared of. He had finely tuned instincts that were clamoring to be used, to be freed, but he had left that life behind. He was no longer an agent.

The hand came to rest on his chest and Andy raised his eyebrows inquisitively, expression open, light, without judgment. It was an open invitation to unload on him, tell him whatever Dylan felt he could talk about. Since he wasn't with the CIA anymore, there was hardly anything secretive or eyes only.

Dylan looked at him, at war with himself, probably running a dozen, if not more, scenarios though his head, arguing, counter-arguing, losing a battle. Andy knew he would cave. Dylan needed a vent, a catalyst, and that's what he was for. That's what he offered.

They ended up on the couch in the living room, Dylan telling him about the arrest, about who Neill Rucco was, about the connection between the victims, and why he had done it.

Andy felt something inside of him constrict in sympathy.

"His words hit home, hm?" he mused softly.

"In a way. He was right. I can't know what it means to lose someone like Rachel had been to him. I can never have what he had."

Andy pressed a kiss against one temple, tightening his embrace.

"I can only imagine what losing you would mean," Dylan went on, voice wavering a little. "And that is bad enough."

"You wouldn't start killing people," Andy reminded him gently, burying one hand in Dylan's hair at the back of his head. "At least I hope I know you well enough to say that," he added lightly, "'cause I can't see you as a cold-blooded killer."

Yes, Dylan had killed in the line of duty. He had more or less told him, but never in those words. He still had the firearm, was licensed to carry one, had all the certificates and papers. It was under lock, but Andy was quite aware of who the man wielding the deadly weapon had been and still was.

"Loss and grief do strange things to a mind," Dylan told him, voice sounding a little far away. "The chemistry of the brain is complex. Your brain is trying to recover. You're experiencing a deep biological response to your loss, just as you're experiencing physical, psychological, and emotional responses. Hormones and chemicals are released, internal reactions are disrupted, important bodily systems shift into emergency mode. And it all starts in the brain. It can drive you into doing unspeakable things out of a soul-deep pain. The grief is seen as a threat and that translates into strong, instinctual responses. Neill lost half of himself, Andy. He was torn in two and one side shriveled up and… disappeared. He couldn't cope with everything that was happening. He lost his balance."

Andy had been silent throughout the monologue, letting the words sink in. Now he sat up and looked into his husband's eyes, framing the narrow face with gentle hands. He met the dark eyes, so much darker again, and he smiled softly.

"That's not you. You said it yourself. It's not something you can experience because you're different from him."

Dylan nodded slowly.

"And because of that, I can't ever be what Rachel was for Neill. You wouldn't be torn apart, Dyl. You wouldn't lose part of yourself."

"I would." Dylan's hand curled tightly around Andy's wrist, as if trying to keep a hold of him because he intended to leave.

Andy covered the white knuckles, stroking over the slender hand. "As is normal with couples. Grief is normal. For Neill it was taken to a completely different level because of what he is. While I can't be that for you, I can be your husband."

"That's more than enough," was the rough answer, Dylan's eyes brimming with emotions as he loosened the tight grip slightly. "So much more."

Andy gave him a quirky little smile. "I hope so. It's all I can bring into this relationship."

Dylan breathed a little laugh of his own. "You bring so much more, Andy. So much I didn't know I could have and never missed. You know that I need you to be me."

"You're a sap, Dr. Reinhart."

Dylan kissed him. Long. Deep. Relaying something Andy had always known and would always treasure. Andy pulled him closer, felt the tight muscles finally uncoil, felt Dylan loosen little by little.

"I think we should order in," he murmured when Dylan and he parted.

It got him a tiny, teasing smile. Dylan's eyes were reflecting something that had Andy shiver. In a good way. A very good way. The hand sliding under his t-shirt and over his lower back was clue enough, too.

"I wouldn't mind," his husband replied softly. "Not at all."

The next kiss became a little more heated, relaying everything Dylan felt, and Andy was only too happy to let his husband know that the feelings were reciprocated.

XnXnXnX

They forgot about ordering in.

Actually, food came later, much later, with both men sharing microwaved leftovers.

Neither man minded.

Especially since it seemed to serve as fuel for a second round.

tbc...


	5. Chapter 5

The building looked as run-down and unwelcoming as Dylan remembered it. The façade had seen better days, blackened in places, brick shining through where the plaster had come off, and the doors looked corroded shut. There was no sign for any kind of business and the trash cans seemed to bar his way, trying to keep him from walking closer.

He hadn't been to this place in ages, but it was still the same. Last time had been throughout the final weeks of him leaving the CIA. Dylan had needed time, room to think, and the physical exertion that he only got here. It was also the place where he could let loose without fearing to hurt someone.

Weaving through the trash containers, all filled with metal scraps and junk, he made his way through a side door and down a surprisingly clean and well-lit corridor. He was aware of the cameras watching, probably running facial ID and whatnot, and he used the hidden scanner and his finger prints to get through the next door.

Dylan passed the exercise machines, some of them already in use, and he ignored the mildly curious looks he received from some customers already in. It was early in the morning, just after sunrise and usually the time where the office workers got their gym hours in, but most of the clientele in here were far from normal office workers.

His senses tingled with the knowledge that these men and women were and weren't so different from him. They were from all over the spectrum of military, law enforcement and security. No one belonged to the 11th precinct, though. Luckily. They were trying to categorize the newcomer and failing.

Dylan received a nod from a well-known face and he smiled a greeting at the owner of this special kind of gym.

"Long time no see," the older man rumbled. "What brings you in?"

"Hello, Hank. I need to unwind a little."

It got him a chuckle. "That's what we're here for. Didn't think your kind needs it." He made a general gesture.

"We don't. I do. For personal and meditative reasons."

That had the owner laugh. "Meditative? Well, you can meditate all you want, Dylan. Leave the room in one piece, willya?"

Dylan winked playfully. "You got it, Hank."

Hank snorted and waved him off.

He went into the changing room, found his old locker, and changed into black sweats. The room he walked into next contained no weights. It was laid out in thick mats, had punching bags and sparring equipment. There was some safety gear hanging on hooks outside the sparring area.

Dylan went through the usual warm up, the movements well-known and ingrained in him.

"Haven't seen you around here for a while," a quiet voice said.

Dylan wasn't startled by it. He had been aware of another presence in the room since he had started. His senses were unfurling from their dormant state, stretching like a cat after a long nap, and he was both relishing and fearing this old self. It was a self he could switch on and off, but he preferred it off nowadays. Completely off. With the help of Andy.

He looked at the other client using the room. The man hadn't really changed a lot A little grayer at the temples, maybe, but still like a hunter, a predator, ready to strike. He was dangerous and Dylan was quite aware how much. He wasn't actively broadcasting his status, but he didn't really need to.

"I could say the same."

The calm eyes reflected amusement and the man's mouth quirked in a brief smile; so brief, it might have been wishful thinking.

"I heard you retired."

Dylan smiled tightly. He felt a similar tightness across his shoulders, a tension that wanted to be unleashed, and he knew it was because of the other man. "I could say the same, John. Aren't you supposed to be dead?"

"Death doesn't always have to be permanent."

It was what he had been trained to do: survive. Dylan shouldn't really be surprised. Men like them were hard to bring down and then to keep down. And this man was even harder to bring down permanently.

"I was retired," he added in that quiet, measured voice. "You chose it. Like you chose to switch off. You're neutral." The brief smile twitching over the other's lips had Dylan smirk.

He knew his abilities were rare, were seen as abnormal even among those with extraordinary senses. Switching off part of yourself was not natural. It was like going blind and deaf all of a sudden, being unable to move freely. That was what someone had once told him.

For Dylan it was normal.

"So what brings you here? You're no longer in the business."

"Complicated circumstances." Dylan wrapped his hands and flexed them, then sized up the punching bags. "I needed a different kind of… outlet. To think. Or maybe not think so much. It's best done here."

"Yes. You can't switch off your brain."

His curse. And a blessing.

The man approached him, each move measured, lithe, effortless, and still displaying power. Dylan had run into him a few times in his past life, early on in his CIA career, until the other agent had been terminated, believed dead. He had been off the grid for a long time, then reappeared in New York, only to disappear again a few years ago.

No traces.

Only those he had left behind, the effect he had had in the brief time he had been there.

Now he was here once more.

And he gave Dylan an inviting nod.

He exhaled slowly, felt something inside of him uncoil in preparation, then he nodded back.

Fighting a man like John was preferable to whoever else was here, because Dylan knew he could hit and hit hard. John was also very much in control of who and what he was.

Actually, he was looking forward to their sparring session.

XnXnXnXn

It was three hours later that Dylan was sweaty, aching, tired, but felt absolutely amazing. He wiped sweat off his face and grinned at his sparring partner, who looked just as exhausted.

"Thank you, John."

"Always a pleasure." He briefly tilted his head, as if trying to scan him.

Dylan knew he was absolutely neutral, that nothing of what he was, what he could really do, made it to anyone's senses. Not even when he let go. His moves were tell-tale, the way he reacted, the way he thought ahead and analyzed the situation, reacting within a fraction of a second, but nothing else.

"You're active again."

"No. I made my choice."

"For your husband."

He inclined his head. Of course John knew about Andy, and Dylan didn't feel threatened by it. He knew a few things about this man, too. He also had a working theory as to what had happened in the years in New York, before Dylan had come here, and why he was probably still here.

John was and wasn't like him. He had the same sharp and honed senses, though not the analytical mind that always ran a million miles where everyone else seemed to be standing still. Where Dylan needed no decompression time due to his unique condition, John had always had someone to guide him in case of an overload.

He had found that kind of person here in New York again, Dylan knew.

"Maybe you'll be back here again," he simply said.

Dylan shrugged. "I try not to make a habit of it."

"You never have."

With that John turned and walked out of the room, leaving Dylan to cool down and lock up the instinct inside him.

XnXnXnXn

When he left the gym it was already closer to nine than he had thought.

"You gonna be a regular again?" Hank asked as he accompanied him outside.

"No. You know I'm done."

"Coulda fooled me. Anyway, see ya around."

And with that Dylan was on his way. He had no intention to make such work-out sessions a regular occurrence. He wasn't active. He didn't need to train or use his abilities on a regular basis to balance himself.

His stomach rumbled. He felt hungry enough to grab a breakfast to go from a restaurant close to home. Coffee, bagels, eggs, and Andy, sounded just about perfect right now.

*XnXnXnXnXnXnXnXnXnXnXnXn

Andy was up when he came home, already showered, smiling widely as he discovered the breakfast items and large coffees from one of their favorite places. He took everything out of Dylan's hand, kissing him briefly, then he raised his eyebrows.

"Got it out of you system?"

Dylan chuckled. "You know me too well."

"Well, it's not like you look like you went ten rounds against a semi-truck and lost. I just know I haven't seen you up and about this early, out of the house, coming back with this…" he made a general gesture at his husband, "well, air around yourself. For lack of a better word."

"I had some thinking to do."

"Hard thinking," Andy said, nodding almost to himself as he unboxed their food. "The kind that would leave others broken on the floor."

Dylan's smile widened a little more. "Like I said, you know me too well. Yes, I had that kind of thinking to do. For the first time in five years. Almost five years."

"So, any epiphanies?"

"Yes, you could say so."

Andy lifted his eyebrows in a silent invitation again.

"Breakfast is getting cold," Dylan only said.

"Oh no! You're not going to epiphany and then not talk about it!"

That got him a laugh. "I epiphanied?"

"Yep. And probably beat the crap out of some poor guy."

Yes, Andy knew him inside out. He had been there for Dylan's soul-searching when he had decided to put their relationship first, protect what he loved, leave the CIA and everything he had ever done in his life behind. Dylan would always be the man with four graduate degrees, a doctorate, and who was fluent in seven languages. He had simply switched off everything else.

Sometimes, it came back.

Like now.

And he needed to vent, to let his mind and body flow together in a way he hadn't allowed himself to experience in a long time.

"I had a volunteer," Dylan now only said and smiled at Andy.

The other man snorted.

"It also helped to get control, to turn it all off again."

Andy's brows rose slightly. There was a slightly doubtful look. "Do you want it all switched off again? It's you, Dylan."

"It's a part I don't need. Not that part. Not the physical violence. My senses, my mind, it's all fine. That last part is what needs a little venting every five years or so." He twitched a smile. "We're good for another five now."

Andy pulled him into a kiss. "Okay."

"Okay?"

"Yup."

So easy. Just one word. Dylan rested his head against one shoulder, relaxing into the strength Andy projected. It was okay.

tbc...


	6. Chapter 6

Another two days passed, with reports written and case files closed. Crime was on the low side, mainly due to the sudden change in weather. Many had been surprised, despite weather forecasts and thunderstorm warnings. Heavy rain soaked the city, had people flee into their homes or stay at work longer than they normally did. No sane criminal was out and about. B&Es didn't happen, no attacks or murders were called in, and the only traffic problems were with people trying to drive in these conditions anyway.

Lizzie Needham had taken those two days to get everything wrapped up and ready for the prosecution, then had added a few more hours to wrap up other cases and send files on their way.

Her desk and email folder had never looked this clean.

Empty.

Like the desk opposite her own.

Dylan hadn't shown up around the precinct even for a quick hello.

She missed him.

Jasmin had given her a day off, actually kicking her into taking that time and maybe do something else than work.

So she did.

With just a little fuss and complaining.

She went to see her consultant/partner at his town house, battling the freezing cold and still constant drizzle. At least it wasn't coming down in sheets anymore.

Lizzie had been to the old, red brickstone building a few times before, always amazed how cozy and warm it was, how homely. The high ceilings, the predominant old style interior with the faded, used look to the door frames, doors and floor, it all helped to make her feel like she had always been part of their lives. The kitchen and living room had just enough of both men to show their lives. Hundreds of books and academic knick-knacks mixed with sports memorabilia, trophies and assorted souvenirs. There were modern furniture pieces as well as what looked like antiques from all over the world.

Dylan welcomed her inside, offered her coffee, and Lizzie gratefully took it. She settled down on the well-worn, old leather couch, enjoying the very feeling of this old house. Her eyes roamed over the stylish decorations, none implemented by a professional decorator. This was all them. This was life, not a magazine photo or to impress visitors.

"Where's Andy?" she asked as she sipped at the black liquid.

"The gym." He gave her a quirky little smile. "He claims he needed to work off some of the sitting he has been doing recently."

She nodded and ate two cookie that had come with the coffee. Really, really good cookies that Dylan claimed Andy had made. She would have to compliment him on his baking skills.

Lizzie let her eyes travel around the room, then met Dylan's mildly curious expression. She held the dark eyes.

"You were more than just a case agent."

Dylan didn't look surprised at all at her abrupt statement.

"Which you already knew."

"Yes, you told me you were paramilitary." She tilted her head a little. "Undercover work, behind the lines, leading covert operations, hush-hush. But there's more. You and Rucco connected in a way, you saw something in him, and he saw something in you, and it wasn't just a shared background because of the CIA or the military."

Dylan met her eyes without hesitation, but he looked a little more wary. Where there was always a predominant twinkle of amusement, there was now… nothing. No tension, no tell-tale narrowing of the eyes. Just this neutral look, the blank slate.

She had seen it on occasion, the human replaced by something else, something careful, something apprehensive, and weirdly calculating. This other side came out in sudden bursts when the sophisticated Professor Dylan Reinhart became what he had been before: the operative. And… more.

It weren't the mysterious texts he sometimes got from the guy in the shadows, who worked miracles when it came to information retrieval. She tried to live with it, found it frustratingly hard most of the time, and it went against every cop instinct she had, but she powered through. With the occasional argument on the side.

They closed cases.

They got their perps.

All that aside, Lizzie had started to suspect there was something more to him, something the CIA hadn't trained him to be but something he had been before that. Something people among the police force whispered about and speculated on when it came to the specialized units among any kind of enforcement agency or the military.

For the past two days, writing her report, listening to the confession of Neill Rucco, and running Dylan's words to him through her head again and again, she had come to a conclusion.

A chilling revelation that would explain so much.

"You are… one of the supernaturally skilled?"

Dylan's fingers played with the glasses in his hands, a contemplative expression on his otherwise too neutral features.

"Not supernatural, no. The definition of supernatural is relating to an order of existence beyond the visible, observable universe. The supernatural is departing from what is usual or normal, especially so as to appear to transcend the laws of nature. Ghosts, angels, devils, demons…" His half-smile didn't reflect any humor. "I have neither wings nor horns. I'm also very much corporeal, don't turn into a lupine creature at full moon, or drink anyone's blood."

Lizzie felt something neatly slide into place at the words, the puzzle that was her partner gaining a few new pieces she could put together. As much as the professor struck her as a Q-like character, more of an analyst than a case agent, she had seen him in action too many times to ignore the skilled marksman, someone experienced at close combat. The detective had never investigated too deeply into what exactly Agent Reinhart had been, what he had done, but she knew he wasn't a light-weight.

Quite the opposite.

She had called him a tough guy once, throughout their early partnership, and she had only half-joked. By now she had learned more.

"You're a… preternatural."

He inclined his head. "Exceeding what is natural or regular."

 _Holy shit!_ shot through her head, followed by more colorful expletives, none leaving her lips.

Lizzie leaned back, expelling a breath. "Whoa," she finally managed.

Dylan shrugged, looking almost a little uncomfortable at having garnered this kind of attention. She didn't fall for it anymore.

"Multi-aspect?"

"You could say that."

"Beautiful mind meets James Bond?"

He chuckled. "I'm hardly Double-Oh movie material."

She snorted, eyes narrowing. If she was right, Dylan Reinhart could easily match the fictitious character. He just liked to hide.

At least he didn't lie to her. Well, he had never truly lied with words, simply not told her stuff or not really answered her questions. It had been maddening, still was, especially since she still didn't know who the mysterious contact was who always dug up the information Dylan used. A part of her wanted to know. Another part shied away from that knowledge.

"If you prefer to call me an Off or Aberrant, be my guest. Officially I'm a preternatural, though 'cursed' has a nice ring to it."

"I'd prefer calling you Dylan," the detective told him with a smile.

It was mirrored and his shoulders relaxed a little.

Preternaturals, as the name suggested, were a little more than human. 'Suspended between the mundane and the miraculous', as it was usually called. They had enhanced aspects that set them apart from the regular Joe. Like their senses, tactility or agility, or their minds. In some, those enhanced senses or abilities blended together. Their abilities were presumed to have a scientific explanation that just hadn't been discovered yet.

She remembered her academy instructors, those who were also scanning possible candidates for different career opportunities, other than the police force. Many preters were drawn into law enforcement and military services. She knew from her academy days that multi-aspect preters normally ended up as special forces.

She knew of two Academy class mates who hadn't finished the first year with the rest of them. Back then she hadn't given it much thought. Later she had heard rumors about them ending up in a different agency.

Lizzie studied her partner. It fit. By god, it fit! She knew he was much more than he let on, but he had yet to display any kind of supernatural abilities. Dylan met her thoughtful expression with a widening smile that bordered to an annoying smirk.

"You are trying to guess," he told her, sounding both amused and a little bit patronizing.

"Which is only natural, seeing what you told me."

"So guess."

It was an invitation as good as any.

She leaned back, taking in the other, her mind flashing through their cases, their time outside a case, seeing him at his work, at her work, with Andy, or just interacting with people.

"Since your phonographic memory doesn't count…," she raised an eyebrow and Dylan nodded, "I'd say at least eye-sight and hearing."

"Why?" he wanted to know, openly curious. It was a prompt from the professor to a student to explain their theory.

"Enhanced sight and hearing are the most common preternatural senses out there. Perfect for military operations and law enforcement."

"So they say."

Lizzie smiled. "Yes, so they say."

"And I would have to agree. So, yes, sight and hearing, as is common."

She frowned a little at the way he said it, how he said, his almost careful wording. "But like in so many things, you're not common," the detective concluded. "You already more or less told me that you not only have the brawn but also the brains. Lots of that."

Dylan chuckled. "The concept of a preternatural refers to a physical ability that exceeds the bounds of what is scientifically proven to be possible. There is never anything common in that definition, no matter the abilities."

"You're particularly you today," she commented.

"I aim to be myself every day."

She gestured at him. "Like that. Snarky know-it-all, using big words, lecturing."

Dylan leaned back in his chair, expression expectant. His boldly striped tie was immaculate as ever, his white shirt with the thin, silver lines both a little bit at odds and still fitting with his powder-blue, checkered vest. The dark green suit was just the tweed wrapping of it all.

Still, he made it work.

Classy. Sophisticated.

Lizzie had never met anyone whose fashion sense was as wild as it was fitting the personality. He wore the suits like an armor and she had rarely seen him without at least the vest on. The ensembles weren't cheap, had top shelf names, but they were… loudly different from what she considered acceptable street wear.

"So, not the common version," she went on. "More than two supernatural senses?"

He shrugged, lips twisting briefly in a half-smirk. "Not supernatural."

Lizzie waved it off. "Preternatural. Three? Four?"

He didn't give her a positive or negative reaction.

"Five?"

That got her a wordless 'got it' gesture.

Five.

She started to feel a little light-headed. Lizzie barely dared to ask the next question. "With the addition of an enhanced physical endurance?"

Another shrug.

The detective was silent for a long time, studying her friend and partner, trying to associate the image of the man with the knowledge she had gained throughout the last hour. It clashed. Like his clothes. And it worked in harmony. Almost like his clothes.

What had Andy once said? No one was like Dylan.

So true.

"Should I call you Superman?" she teased.

"Hardly. I'm not invulnerable. I also can't fly."

She chuckled. "If anyone could, it would be you."

"Thank you for the vote of confidence, misplaced as it is. Would that make you Lois Lane?"

She groaned. "I'm not a reporter for starters."

His smirk had her grimace in return.

"How can you just switch it all off?" Lizzie got back to her line of questions, so many still piling up inside her head.

Dylan raised a shoulder. "I left the CIA."

"And you what? Shut it all down?"

"Yes."

"Really?"

"I don't need to be… my old self anymore. It's,,, an aspect of me, an ability, that I trained and can use or decide not to. I decide not to."

She expelled a breath. "So you left your old life, started anew, and…" She snapped her fingers. "Voila?"

"Well, not as easily as that, but the switch analogy is fitting. It's just more like a dial, I can set it to zero. I've done it all my life."

"Because you don't need it."

"Exactly."

"Except your brain. You can't shut that off."

He looked like a proud teacher who had finally taught a dense student a new trick. Sometimes she wanted to smack him over the head for it.

So his mind was the other half of his preternatural side, the half that was always on, that immersed itself into a case and went into hyperdrive from one second to the next. It consumed him, he would obsess over it, and there was no off-switch.

"Must be hard," she murmured.

"It can be."

Those three words said a lot.

"And you left all of that, your career, your calling, because you met Andy."

He nodded. "Yes."

"The CIA just gave you a handshake, a medal and let you?"

Dylan chuckled. "In a way, though there was no medal. I get a nice little paycheck every month. Early retirement. And I never liked authority. I think they were more than happy to get rid of me."

The way he said it, the way his expression shuttered a little, Lizzie knew she wouldn't get anything about the true circumstances and possible deal out of him. Dylan still had some of his old contacts, if not all, and he had used them for their cases.

"Still you got back into the game. With me. You love working cases. You love the challenge."

"That I do. It is… kind of irresistible."

"It's your nature."

He smiled. "Andy said something like that not too long ago. I told him I do need to do this kind of work. My nature. My calling, my father once said. It's hard to go against nature."

Yes, she knew. And she recalled all those little bursts of excitement, the driven way he worked sometimes, how absorbed he became, how involved.

tbc,,,


	7. Chapter 7

"I apologize in advance for sounding like I read bad romance novels," Dylan grinned with delight at the words and Lizzie shot him a scowl, "but did the two of you… connect? Bond?"

His grin widened, became playful. "Yes, you do sound like an avid romance novel reader. Those with the half-naked protagonist on the cover, the damsel swooning in his arms."

Her frown turned into a glare.

"Those novels… exaggerate. Sometimes they show what it's really like, but it's… well, not enough for them. They want the intense, more extreme variation of what preternaturals experience. It's a blessing and a curse to have another soul that can balance you." Dylan studied his hands. "Preternaturals aren't superhuman. We're a small subdivision. We have weak spots, an Achilles' Heel. For my particular multi-aspect nature it would be the possibility of an empathic connection to another human soul. Not a friendship, not a fling; a deep and permanent relationship that wouldn't have to be more than platonic. The surface doesn't matter when the deeper link forms. Why an empathic connection?" He spread his hands. "Simple. To ease the side-effects of what I can do. Normally the mind can only buffer so much information until it shuts down. A… partner would help me with that. It would keep me from overloading, from zoning, from possibly killing myself because I have become an easy target."

Lizzie knew her mouth was open, a dozen questions on the tip of her tongue, but she asked none of them.

"But this Achilles' Heel can also be used to control, to influence or to shackle me. The CIA, while happy to have a talented applicant like me, saw it as a problem. It's always a problem, unless you have a handler, who happens to be that person capable of balancing your energy, for lack of a better word.

Throughout their tests it became clear that I had the mind to control my abilities, that I wouldn't need a shield or a protector. I'm self-reliant from birth and can counter-balance the overwhelming sensory input. I can guide myself. My father was so proud to have passed on his genetic predisposition to his only son." Dylan leaned back, sounding almost wistful. "And he was so disappointed when I came out to him. He had most likely hoped for a grandchild with the same abilities one day. Like I told you before, I wasn't a popular kid in school. I was what you might call a nerd. I was geeky, full of pimples, looked nothing like a jock. I was the odd ball. I think to this day Roger regrets not fathering more offspring. At least he can now brag about a Soulless in the family."

"Soulless." She blinked, trying to digest the words, the meaning, the implications.

Nothing fit anymore.

The description alone didn't fit this empathetic man. She couldn't see Dylan and think 'soulless'.

Dylan cocked his head. "Don't tell me the books don't use the Soulless."

"I never read a single one of those books!" she replied sternly.

It had him grin. "Of course not, Detective Needham. And they do. There are dozens of stories out there with a Soulless protagonist." He gave her a searching look, then added, "You really have no idea."

She shook her head.

"Oh. Maybe you should take up a new hobby. Reading." He winked.

Lizzie narrowed her eyes in a warning.

"Well. Like I said, with all my senses on a preternatural level I would automatically seek help to keep functioning like a normal human being, to keep from overstressing. I don't do that and whatever stressor was applied in the past, I resisted. I don't fall into a zone, don't have fugue states, I don't react to other preternaturals. They can't tell what I am either. I'm perfectly neutral. Soulless."

"No one is soulless," Lizzie argue. "Religion aside, it's impossible!"

"We're not talking about the metaphysical aspect of the human form or the religious interpretation of energy transfer after death. Preternaturals can sense each other to a degree. Not all the time, but sometimes. I'm completely invisible, a blank, a neutral. I have no soul to match my own, so I cannot be bound. Where other preters might instinctively respond to a match, I wouldn't recognize them even if they were sitting in the same room with me, asking me a million questions." Another half-smile. "Because there is no match."

"But…" She stopped, mind whirling. "I couldn't be your match," she snorted.

"Probably not," he acquiesced.

She still couldn't think of him as a powerful preternatural human, let alone soulless. It had taken a while for her to understand for real that Dylan Reinhart had been a CIA case officer and paramilitary to boot. He was the epitome of the college and university professor. The academic. Yes, he was loyal, and he absolutely annoying in how he went into a case and doggedly followed his own instincts, ignoring procedure and protocol. Lizzie knew he would be the one person responsible for her first gray hair because of his rogue moves, because of his unpredictable reactions. It was how he talked to suspects, witnesses and victims. He was straight-forward and had no patience for rules and the law.

It didn't fit the CIA operative, the undercover specialist, and again it did.

He was such a contradiction in everything he was, did and said, it sometimes made her want to kick him off his pedestal one moment and hug him for his incredible insights the next. She needed his brilliant mind, but she could do with a lot less attitude most of the day.

"You can't be soulless," Lizzie repeated forcefully, shaking her head.

Dylan's smile grew a little more. He seemed to be reading her thoughts again, "No?"

"What about Andy?" she challenged him.

"What about him?"

"Aren't the two of you…"

"… married? Yes."

Lizzie refused to give in to her aggravation. It was hard sometimes. Like right now. The man was driving her crazy! At least he was answering her questions.

"You know what I mean!"

"Yes, I do. And no, we aren't. Soulless isn't the absence of a soul. The term implies a state of disconnection from one's emotions, from human thought, from humanity as such. It's the metaphysical interpretation of something not even close to ethereal. It makes you think I can neither hate nor love."

Which wasn't true, Lizzie knew. See exhibit A: Andrew Wilson, former attorney at law, now owner of a bar, and Dylan's husband.

"There are preternaturals out there, a scarce few, who suffer from that condition. They are judgmentally called Hollows." Dylan looked a little stricken at that. "They are the ones who give the Soulless a bad name. Like in the Dark Ages, where soullessness was associated with evil, with dark desires maybe, with something impure and monstrous."

Exhibit B, Lizzie continued her silent monologue: Dylan Reinhart. A passionate teacher, equally passionate investigator, and very invested researcher and advisor to her. Her friend. Annoying, know-it-all, pain in the butt friend.

"Superstitions of old called the Soulless demons, witches or devils. We are hardly demonic. It's not that dark and terrifying. I'm very well able to feel. Happy, sad, angry, joyful, jealous, afraid. All the range of the human emotional state. I'm not a supernatural being."

She gave him a 'really?' look and he chuckled.

"Andy is simply the man who broke through the emotional walls, the one person who made me want more from my life than what my father had envisioned. A relationship was always out of the question for me, just like friends. Until him. I wanted us to work. I tried separating the private from the work, but it didn't work." Something dark seemed to flicker through his eyes. "I saw too many broken promises, too much hear-ache and pain. I didn't want that. I wanted… him."

Lizzie digested the news. "You left because you… connected?"

There was that quirky little smile again. "I can only love, and I truly did fall in love. Very fast, very hard."

The simple words had her heart constrict, but there was also a burst of warmth. She had seen their relationship, how loving they were, how Dylan adored his husband and how Andy returned the feelings. One drew the other into his world, opening his life for the other half, and vice versa. Andy was Dylan's way out. The former lawyer had once mentioned that Dylan was the same guy at home, just as aggravating, but she had seen the light in the man's eyes, the love, and she knew it was food for teasing between them.

"Andy… Andy works a kind of magic I'm powerless against." The soft smile was back, the lines in Dylan's face disappearing. "I'm so lucky to have him. That he loves me back."

"Whatever you say, I think Andy is the perfect match. Maybe not at a level your preternatural side would be attracted to. Just a very human, very emotion-bound side. I see you two and I see how you respond to one another."

"He's the best thing that ever happened to me. He's my life," he told her quietly, voice intense. "But even if he was my perfect partner on a completely different level, I am neutral. Undetectable. Nothing can change that. Not Andy, not your wishful thinking…"

"… or yours," Lizzie added, making it almost a question.

Dylan looked slightly startled, then fractionally inclined his head.

Lizzie shook her head. "Maybe you're right. Maybe those books or whatever are right. But something inside you recognizes him, Dylan. You said the term 'soulless' refers to your inability to connect to another of your kind for balance, because you don't need anyone and never will."

Dylan inclined his head.

"So what if you need someone on an emotional level and that's where the soullessness ends? What if Andy was that missing piece?" Lizzie tilted her head a little, almost thoughtful. "It makes a lot of sense, seeing how tight you two are."

Dylan's smile never wavered, was this calm, almost gentle expression, with a touch of a smirk. She knew it only too well.

"That sounds very… romantic, Detective Needham."

She gave him another warning look, lips thining, eyes narrowing. Dylan ignored it.

"It also sounds very human, and that's what you are. No matter what you call yourself," Lizzie said evenly.

"Yes. Maybe. It's possible. I cannot be compromised by finding someone who has control over me, someone who isn't a CIA handler. Andy, when I found him… he was suddenly my safety line, my only way out. I had never experienced these kind of emotions before. I wanted this life, this kind of happiness, and I gave up my so-called predestined career. I gained a new one. As corny as it may sound, Andy is my anchor to stay away from what my father still wants me to be. There is nothing preternatural about it."

His expression softened even more and Lizzie found herself mirroring it.

"Lucky you," she said softly.

Thoughts of Charlie welled up inside her, memories of his laughter, his warmth, his love, his everything. And her emotions for him, the life they had wanted together, had planned together. All erased in a moment. Because of betrayal, deceit and greed. It had split her open, had torn part of her out of, yes, her soul, and no one had been able to heal that yet.

She pushed it all away.

"Lucky me," Dylan echoed. "I was incredibly, unbelievably lucky. There was a time I didn't believe that this man could feel anything deeper for me." It was a rare glimpse into Dylan's head, his emotions, and Lizzie almost held her breath. "I thought he would tire of me. We're so different."

"You two?" she teased gently. "Nooooo. Peas in a pod."

He shot her a small smile. "Yes, the two of us, hard as it seems to be for you to believe me. I didn't dare to hope that he would want more." He made a weak gesture. "Of this. We dated more or less irregularly, due to my work. Whenever I was in the vicinity, I met up with him." Dylan folded his hands. "I didn't think he would see this as… a relationship… But he did. I was… a little baffled."

Lizzie grinned. "I bet. How did you two meet anyway? I mean, he was already a lawyer back then and you were the big, bad agent."

"It's not as romantic or wildly adventurous as you might think. I wasn't even working. It was a bakery. I wanted a coffee, he was having his own coffee break and eating a cookie, reading the paper. I sat next to him because it was so crowded and something caught my eye."

"Andy?" she laughed.

"No, an article in the paper. He gave me the page without me even asking."

She could just imagine the scene.

"We started to talk. And we left together. We talked more, spent time in the park, and he gave me his number."

Lizzie leaned back, grinning widely. "Dylan Reinhart! I wouldn't have thought you'd a call a stranger you had met at a coffee shop for a candle light dinner!"

"Bakery," he corrected her, delight dancing in his eyes. "And he wasn't a stranger by the time we went our own way. I had never met someone who was so easy, so clear in his actions, so without… deceit. It was refreshing. I felt like I had always known him."

Lizzie pointedly raised her eyebrows, but Dylan refused to be baited.

"You two sound like one of those trash romance novels," she teased.

He grimaced. "We don't."

"Do."

"Ah-huh. Are we now resorting to the kindergarten 'Do, Do too' game?"

Lizzie smirked. "Go on," she just encouraged him. "You. Andy. I'm curious."

"Of course you are. Well, I called him. We had lunch, not the candle light dinner you might have imagined. We met more often. Even between cases." He looked a little wistful. "We talked almost about everything, except my work. I protected him from that. He didn't know for a long time what I was really doing. He knew I travelled, that I had a job that took me out of the country for weeks, that I had stayed abroad as a professor, but never the truth behind it all."

"And you formed your own kind of connection."

A half-shrug.

Andy was the counter-weight to the brilliance, to the lightning speed with which Dylan's mind processed information, with the jumble that had to be inside him. All coupled with instincts that were from beyond the dawn of time and that made up his preter side.

"You, Dylan Reinhart, are more than intriguing," Lizzie stated. "There's the preternatural that is such a scary good field agent, that wants to dig into a case, that's detecting and snooping around. The thrill of the hunt and the satisfaction of a solved case. And then there's the analyst, the talented side, the scholar who remembers a million facts and tried to keep his mind from overloading on it all."

"Very accurate, Detective."

"That's how you make it in the NYPD." She tapped her nose.

He smiled, amusement reflecting in his eyes. "So there's hope for me yet."

She laughed. "In your dreams, professor."

His demeanor grew serious and slightly apprehensive again. "Do you have a problem with that?"

"With what? You blatant disregard for rules and procedures? Ignoring me as your boss? Going behind my back and acquiring close-to or absolutely illegal information I can't use in a case? Leaving me in the dark about your more dangerous theories while throwing around a dozen really wild ones?"

His face underwent a few changes, from amused to embarrassed to pained. "Lizzie…"

She held up a hand and he stopped. "You're my partner, Dylan. Probably the best I ever had. No. You are the best. You have my back. Always. You also keep me on my toes and make me think harder, maybe even along lines I wouldn't have considered before. I trust you. I don't like the secrets you keep, but I think I understand why you keep them. You have a past; a dangerous one. That you're an alpha-level preternatural is just… well, another part of you."

"Alpha-level?"

She rolled her eyes. "Oh please. I might need to brush up on a lot, but that's no secret."

He chuckled, not commenting. Lizzie knew it was the truth.

"You're like an onion," she teased.

"I'd rather see myself as a layer cake."

"Sweet and sticky?"

His grin was almost infectious.

"You're so full of yourself, Professor."

"The shoe fits, Detective."

She leaned forward. "And I really don't mind. You're my partner. You've proven your loyalty. Even if you're the most aggravating and annoying partner I ever had."

"At least I didn't get a knee to the groin."

"Twice."

"Ouch." Dylan smiled at her, open and happy. "Thank you."

Lizzie mirrored it. "You're more than welcome."

tbc...


	8. Chapter 8

"You told her."

Dylan gazed out over the river, the wind cold, but with the sun out it was actually quite nice outside. The wind had lessened, but the next weather front was approaching, threatening snow.

December was approaching and with it not only frosty temperatures but also Christmas and everything that came with it. Here and there Christmas lights were already flaring up, people were starting to shop for the festivities, and businesses were stocking up on decorations.

"I did."

"You trust her." It wasn't even a question. Julian flipped up the collar of his coat. His dark hair was all stuffed under a knitted hat.

"I do."

The other man just stood next to him, silent, his breath clouding a little as he suddenly exhaled.

"I hope it's not misplaced."

Dylan gave him a mildly curious look. Julian shrugged, face as neutral as could be.

"I didn't hear anything, if that's what you're asking. But aside from your husband, you never told a single soul what you are before."

"Enough people know."

"Not anyone you told yourself," Julian repeated. "Outsiders. Not Company."

Dylan was silent, eyes following slowly moving water.

"Yes, I trust her. It's instinct."

Julian gave him a long, hard look, then nodded once. "Okay. Up to you."

"Yes, as always."

Julian didn't reply, simply pushed off from the railing and walked away. Dylan stayed a little longer, then the cold had him move, too.

Telling Lizzie… well, answering her questions truthfully, actually, had been freeing in a way. He really did trust her and it was pure instinct. It was an instinct nothing could suppress and it was something he relied on heavily. No amount of analytical thought or logical thinking could ever replace what he had been born with, what had saved his life countless times in the past.

It was the same sensation that had let him trust Andy, had made him open up, fall into their relationship, want more than just a few nights and a quick good-bye. His reaction to Andy had been the strongest and nothing had ever come close to that feeling. What he had experienced around Lizzie was different. She was a partner, someone to have his back no matter what, someone he could even trust with Andy's life.

Dylan headed for the subway, taking it the few stations to the stop closest to home. Warmth blossomed inside him at the thought.

Home.

XnXnXnXnXnXnXnXnXnXnXnXnXnXnXnXn

When Andy came home from work that evening, feeling tired but happy about a good day, he wasn't surprised to find his husband in his study, working away on whatever was currently holding his complete interest. He rarely asked all too deeply, because most of the time he was drawn into the latest mystery investigation anyway. Or an obscure book review Dylan had unearthed from some small town gazette. Or something from Joan. Or whatever else.

So he just called hello to let Dylan know he was there, then proceeded to drop off his jacket and bag. He headed for the shower, scrubbing off the smell and sweat of a busy night. He toweled off and dressed in his sweats, then went into kitchen to get himself a beer, before he walked into the study to ask if his husband wanted to stay in or go out to eat.

One look told him that something was up. Especially when Dylan just walked up to him and wordlessly pulled him into a kiss.

"Whoa," he laughed. "Not that I'm complaining, but… are you okay?"

It wasn't the kiss, it was… everything else.

"You smell nice."

He laughed. "Uh, thank you? I just showered."

Dylan pecked him on the lips again, one hand sliding over his unshaven cheek. Andy had found out right from the start that Dylan was tactile, didn't shy away from displaying his affection in many ways, and he loved closeness.

But something was… different.

Looking into the dark eyes he saw something that hadn't been there for a very long time.

Okay, this was heavy. Maybe even bad.

Andy pulled him over to the couch. "Talk," he prompted.

Dylan felt tense in his embrace, like he was about to break, and even the exhalation of a sigh didn't lessen that.

"Lizzie knows."

"Okay, when I said talk, I meant complete sentences that make sense to me. Because for all you think you're giving me all the facts, you're not."

Dylan huffed a little laugh. He was leaning against Andy's chest, an arm wrapped around the younger man's waist, his face hard to see.

"Detective Needham inquired into my… past life."

"CIA."

"No. Yes. Partly."

"I love it when you make less sense than usual, Dylan."

"She drew the right conclusions about my preternatural nature, in connection with my old job."

Andy blinked.

Ohhh-kay…

The seriously heavy stuff.

"Wow…"

When his now-husband, then-lover had revealed that particular snippet – well, big chunk of scary truth and awe-inspiring facts - of himself, what he truly was by birth, Andy had been slightly more than floored. Or flabbergasted. It was even worse than shocked.

Dylan Reinhart was a heavy hitter ability-wise and also a highly-skilled special operations agent when it came to the CIA. Andy had never known a lot about that particular field, only ever watched police procedurals, crime shows, or followed general news reports. His former field of work hadn't really gotten him in contact with the CIA.

Thankfully.

"Is… that a problem?" he probed.

Corporate Law handled little to nothing concerning the preternatural. They were treated the same in front of a jury since few actually outed themselves. Most were in a profession where their true nature was an asset and transgressions were handled by another kind of court. So what Andy knew about what his husband really was could be summed up on one page. At least until the day Dylan opened up and gave him everything.

The CIA had been far from happy to see their asset retire, but he wasn't their property and no one had tried to stop him. Probably because he had served his country for longer than many would ever suspect and because his father held such a high position. And most likely because this man could easily reinvent himself and disappear forever. He spoke seven languages fluently, had extensive combat experience, had travelled the world.

And this incredible man had chosen Andrew Wilson as his partner and later his husband.

He loved him.

As much as Andy loved him in return. There was an unwavering devotion and loyalty that had floored the former lawyer again and again. There was never any doubt, never any hesitation.

What could, and should, have been a one-night stand, maybe a little affair, had quickly spiraled into a long-term relationship that had ended with Dylan quitting his old life.

"No. At least I hope not," Dylan said slowly. "I really hope not. She seemed open." He flashed a smile. "Like you were."

Andy wasn't extraordinary; simply human. He had never felt special. Just a man, someone who had thrown away his elite college education and opened his own bar. Not because he had inherited it, or because it had come run-down and cheap, or because a friend had talked him into it.

No.

It had been his decision. Because his old life had started to make him want to take a shower several times a day. He wasn't a shark, just like Dylan wasn't a killer. And Dylan had pulled all brakes for an emergency stop in his own life, had made their relationship his priority, had taken up teaching and writing a very successful book.

Because of Andy.

And he had said yes when Andy had asked him to marry him.

"I fell in love with the sexy guy who was so different from everyone I had ever met. Different in a good way."

He pressed a kiss to his husband's head, feeling the arm around his waist tighten.

"I never cared about what you are, Dylan, only who."

Sometimes Andy wished he could be that one soul in the world that was Dylan's to bond with, but he knew a Soulless couldn't.

"And Lizzie is a friend," he told him. "She's good for you. She ignited that spark again. You two make a really good team, right? She's your partner."

Detective Needham had turned from a work colleague to a friend, and they had been in tune with each other. As much as they were opposites, they suited the other's quirks and peculiarities. Well, Dylan was peculiar and quirky. Lizzie was simply a driven, by-the-book officer. Andy had met her on several occasions, she had been over to their home, they had met at the bar, he had even helped her out of a lawsuit. Dylan loved their cases, looked forward to her calls, and in Andy, it had stoked an old fear: the preternatural had found a match.

Dylan had told him he was Soulless right from the start. Andy hadn't really been able to grasp the concept back then, but that was mostly because of all the myth out there concerning the soulless preternaturals.

The ones born without a crucial part, some claimed. The ability to connect to another human soul; forever without that soul. Soulless.

Dylan wasn't abnormal. Not in his book. He was perfect. He was the man Andrew Wilson loved and had married, whom he wanted to share the rest of his life with. Names and terms and whatever else be damned.

When Detective Needham had stepped into their lives, she had been… perfect.

And Andy was not. He and Dylan were so different, it sometimes had him think about what had truly gotten them together. Dylan was insanely smart; he had a mind like no other. He was a scholar, a professor, an intellectual, and he understood human nature on a level that baffled others. He loved classical music. And underneath that was the highly-trained CIA agent, the man who had a weapon in his safe, who was an expert in a multitude of disciplines, and who had worked undercover missions for longer than Andy wanted to think about.

Andy was… the complete opposite. He didn't come from a long line of lawyers or academics. He had been the first in the family, the pride and joy of his parents. He loved sports, was not even close to smart like his husband, though he was a little more reasonable than Dylan in some situations, able to step back from a personal emotional topic and look at it from another angle. He understood only half of what his husband was talking about sometimes, didn't really get into the whole classical music thing.

But they made it work.

They were their own people, with different interests, and still they shared so many more things.

Now Lizzie… the by the book cop, the woman who would go by the law, the rules, and follow procedures, and whom Dylan had connected to in another way.

His way.

He liked her, loved the challenge each case presented, loved challenging her to change her ways, just like she challenged him to follow procedures.

Andy had watched them, saw the chemistry, and while the logical part knew that Dylan had no way of actually finding a match in her, nor was he interested in women at all on a more carnal level, Andy felt a strange tingle of both fear and regret.

"You're thinking about it again," Dylan murmured, breaking into his thoughts. He sounded lazy, relaxed, with barely a guarded whisper to his words.

"Hey, no spy stuff," Andy teased.

It got him a small chuckle. "I don't need the 'spy stuff' to read you, Andy. I know you."

Like Andy didn't need to be the exceptional mind Dylan Reinhart was to read his husband. Dylan sat up and met his eyes, serious now and fully concentrating on the younger man.

"Lizzie Needham is my friend and my partner. We work well together. She knows what I am and she accepts it. You, Andrew Wilson, are my husband. You are the man I love in a way I never thought possible. You are the man who managed the impossible: I left the CIA. I turned my back on everything, the only life I had ever known, a job I was very good at, even though my disregard for authority had me flagged six ways to Sunday. I turned on my training and conditioning, on extremely strong instincts, and even on my family in a way, because I wanted a life with you. Only you."

Andy swallowed hard, emotions welling up inside him. Dylan's voice had dropped a little, had become so intense, it touched something deep inside the other man. It always did. And it always reminded Andy of the true power underneath the unassuming exterior.

"I love you," Dylan said. "More than anything. And I'll tell you again and again. Every day. I might be Soulless, but I'm not emotionless. I love you with everything I have. You gave me my life, Andy. I learned to really appreciate everything, to have a fulfilling life, not just an existence. As I told you before, I need you to turn off that other side of me. Only you. No one else ever managed what you have."

"I love you," Andy replied, voice wavering a little. "All of you. No exception." He pulled the other man closer, kissing him.

Dylan was only too happy to reply in kind.

"You keep me grounded," he murmured when they finally separated again.

"That beautiful mind of yours needs a good kick in the nuts sometimes."

XnXn

Dylan laughed at the joking words, felt happiness bubbling through him. All of him seemed to stretch, to try and take in the other man.

 _'I do need to do what I do. And I need you to stop me.'_

Back then the words had been as heartfelt as they still were now, running through his head. His mind needed the challenge, the excitement, the puzzle and the mystery to solve. It also needed Andy as a base line, his neutral zone, the one focus that would never change.

"And you take your job very seriously."

"Isn't that what husbands are for?"

He slid a hand under the black, formfitting shirt, enjoying the warm skin. The switch inside his mind quivered and he allowed himself to dial it up a little, the warmth, the softness, the pulse of every beat of Andy's heart whispering through him.

"I can't do this without you," he whispered, voice a little rough.

His husband's fingers had started to undo the shirt buttons and he saw the reflection of his own emotions in the warm eyes, wanting more, aware of so much more than anyone could ever be when it came to Dylan Reinhart, the preternatural.

"You won't ever have to."

He allowed his senses to rise, to lose himself in the one man who was everything to him, and Andy's smile was proof enough that the younger man knew him inside out.

Everything that was Andrew Wilson spoke to him, had him, Dylan, center himself, calm down and balance his mind.

Like now.

In so many ways.

tbc...


	9. Chapter 9

Dylan was up early, wearing only a dark gray t-shirt and sweat bottoms, hair tousled, far from his usual, sophisticated self. Andy was still asleep and he had let him, sliding silently out of bed.

The past weeks, working that one particular case, had left some disturbing memories. Those buried deep inside, and apparently it had given Andy reason to be afraid, too.

Of losing Dylan because of his innate abilities, of his heritage.

But no one could take Dylan away. No one could ever be what Andy was. If wishes were horses… Andy would be his perfect connection. He would have been the one soul Dylan Reinhart would have been able to connect to, bond with, share his own soul with. Being Soulless was permanent, so he was permanently absolutely neutral. There would never be so much as a blip.

The perfect operative who couldn't be compromised on an emotional level he had no control over.

The perfect asset.

The perfect weapon.

And forever psychologically damaged on so many levels, with issues no shrink outside the Company would understand.

The former agent knew with all his heart and soulless state that Andy was his perfect match, opposites as they were. They complemented each other, no matter what anyone might say.

Andy was the lightning rod he needed, the grounding wire, the anchor and counter-weight. All of that. They had their fights, their doubts, their bad days, but every couple had them. What mattered was that he wouldn't be swayed away from this man, even when his own insecurity in emotional matters had had him fear this wonderful, warm and loving person might find someone who was so much better at being… human. A sociable, functioning human being. Someone without so many annoying mannerisms and over-all aggravating nature. On top of being a preternatural anyway.

There had been attractive men looking Andy's way; women, too. Some had even made a bid for his attention or more. The man had worked for a fancy law firm, one of the top ten best in the country. He had the looks, the smarts and the money.

Andy had turned them down, clear words, no doubt in his voice, never a second look.

"Because I love you," had been his calm, easy-going answer. "You, Dylan. Only you."

Thanks to his father's great ambitions for his son, trying to live vivaciously through his only offspring, Dylan would never know if his instincts were right in this particular case.

He still remembered the conversation they had had after the Kyle Adams case.

 _"The life chose me. And those who are lucky to be chosen for this are meant to abide. Don't turn your back on your gift to spite me. You always embraced your true self. It's who you are, whether you accept it or not. You weren't raised to think it's okay to quit, to be a failure. You cannot turn your back on a responsibility for a relationship."_

His father had accepted his son's different sexual interest, though he hadn't been pleased. That it had led to Dylan leaving the CIA had been a sore point. He was civil with Andy, they went along just fine, he had been at their wedding, but the way Roger Reinhart talked about it, the 'relationship', had Dylan's hackles rise.

And not in a good way.

His father thought he was a failure. He had an amazing gift, uncanny abilities, and he had chosen not to be his father's spitting image, surpass him, maybe even inherit his position of power one day.

That wasn't him and never would be. For all his supposed alpha level status, Dylan had never wanted to be that person.

 _"I've done what I've done, I've gone to where I am, because I learned to sacrifice. If I had your abilities I never would have gone into administration."_

His father had two enhanced senses, one stronger than the other, but not enough to classify for a higher status. He wasn't even beta material. A good agent, but never top of the line. One reason to switch into the administrative line of his career. Administration didn't bow to the same misconceptions. His father was a powerful figure and he used that power in his own way.

Dylan… Dylan had always been good. Very, very good. One of the best. Alpha.

Lonely.

Alone.

His eyes fell on the closed bedroom door.

Not anymore.

He had a partner, his husband, someone he would protect with his life, someone he trusted, someone who trusted him. Dylan wouldn't be swayed from his side for whatever reason. Not even if the CIA offered everything to him.

 _"I'm proud of who I am."_

It had been the truth. He was proud. He didn't regret a single day since that decision.

Andy was who he loved, who he protected. That was his new life. It was what he had chosen for himself.

He hadn't lied to Lizzie when he had told her he had switched off his preternatural side. He didn't need those kind of abilities. His instincts were enough; his knowledge, his schooling. Sometimes he would have to resort to physical combat, but it was rare.

He loved his life.

This life.

XnXnXnXnXnXnXnXnXnXnXnXnXnXnXnXnXnXnXnXnXnXnXnXn

When Lizzie walked into Rafter's three days after her talk with Dylan and the big revelation, it was to the loud cheers of the patrons watching a game on the multiple screens. She happily closed the doors behind her and the gusty winds outside, the much warmer temperatures inside quickly thawing her frozen ears and nose.

Andy was behind the bar, busy serving drinks and taking new orders, but he gave a wide, welcoming smile that somehow worked its magic right away. Lizzie felt herself relax in the crowded, energetic atmosphere as she wove through the people. In the back, near the kitchen, where no TV was within sight, a small table was mercifully unoccupied. There was only one chair, the other probably napped by one of the many guests, and she nodded at the waitresses passing her by.

Another loud cheer informed her of a goal and she smiled to herself.

"Hey," Andy greeted her, sounding a bit out of breath, but he looked happy in very much in his element. "The usual?"

She chuckled. "Yes, if you're not too slammed."

"Nah. Pete and Edo have the bar right now. I'm the runner, but the runner's taking his five right now. And you look like you need something warm. Be right back with your order."

She smiled as she watched him wave at Edo, one of his employees, who filled a glass for her. Andy served it, then headed for the kitchen not far away, calling in a burger.

"So, what brings you in?" he asked as he plonked a bowl of chips in front of her to snack on until her food arrived. "Not that I don't want you here, but Dylan's home, writing."

"I know. And good for him. He's back in the mood." It wasn't even a question.

Andy's warm smile had her smile back, feeling a similar warmth.

"He's been miserably staring at his screen for so long, I was afraid it would stay that way. But he's gone past the writer's block. Well, not really a writer's block. He was pretty down when Joan told him his book was heartless, flat, too theoretical, in her opinion."

"She never holds back on that."

"Yup. Well, he's got some new ideas. Fingers crossed. Joan claims he got his mojo back."

Lizzie nodded. Andy quickly darted off and got her food, which consisted of one of his signature burgers, fries and coleslaw. She felt her stomach rumble at the sight.

"Thanks, Andy."

"You're welcome."

Lizzie took a bite and savored the juicy flavor. "I actually came to talk to you," she said after swallowing the first bite.

"Me?" His eyebrows shot up.

She nodded and chewed. "Dylan most likely told you that I more or less interrogated him?"

"Yeah. He didn't say interrogated, though." He quirked a smile. "He called it a cross-examination."

Of course Dylan had told his husband.

And of course he would call it a cross-examination.

"He said you're okay with it." Andy sounded almost careful.

"I am. Absolutely. With everything. It was both a surprise and not so much. I should have figured it out sooner." Lizzie grimaced. "I am the detective. At least it says so on my cards. Then again, it's not the first time he called me out on not being on my best investigative run."

"It's not like preternaturals flaunt their abilities."

Lizzie dipped a fry in sauce. "I know." She popped it into her mouth. "And I did a lot of research since we talked. A lot. I mean, everyone knows preternaturals exist, but it's like saying that there are different flavors at the local ice cream shop. Until you get handed something you've never tasted, you don't really look at it all."

Andy laughed. "That's a comparison I've never heard before."

Lizzie shrugged. "I didn't know that about ten percent of humanity is preternaturally talented. I did know they tend to end up in the military and law enforcement, with just a few on the wrong side of the law."

Andy shrugged. "It's their instinct."

Lizzie smiled at the words. Dylan usually claimed just that, his instinct, when it came to solving a case.

"I'm very much okay with who and what Dylan Reinhart was and now is. What he always was, actually. I'm just baffled at his claim that he's a Soulless."

"He is," Andy confirmed, expression very serious.

"I had to look it up again, despite his very thorough explanation, and it… It's confusing," she finally said. "Absolutely weird. Still, so very, very him."

Her companion smiled a little. "Very much."

"It's just that the two of you… as opposite as you are, you are so perfect together."

He chuckled. "You haven't seen us fight over the same little things other couples do."

"Not what I mean."

Andy grew serious again. "I know. And I know what you mean, but I'm not and never will be a preternatural. Even if by some weird, unknown test method I end up being some exotic version of a never before known preternatural, Dylan can't bond to anyone."

Lizzie was still convinced he had to this particular human being, Andrew Wilson. One hundred years ago there hadn't even been a way to test for compatibility. Maybe in another hundred someone would discover that yes, a Soulless could find a match to balance them in a very unique way. Not for his preternatural senses, just for his own soul.

She gave Andy a smile. "If you say so."

Loud cheering drowned out everything else and Andy looked over his shoulder, quickly checked the situation, just in case he was needed to serve or take orders. But everything was under control and everyone was happy.

"This isn't some fiction novel," he told her when he turned back. "Dylan and I are just two people who found each other, found what we needed in the other, and it works. He being a preternatural never figured into this. I'm not getting any empathic tingles, I can't connect to him on a psychic level, and he can very well function without me in all and every situation."

Lizzie wanted to point out all the tiny little things she had noticed, but she kept her mouth shut. Instead she gave Andy a little smirk. "Anything you want to tell me about the care of a preternatural ex-CIA agent of your husband's caliber?"

Andy chuckled. "Don't feed him after midnight, don't get him wet, don't expose him to bright light?" he teased.

Lizzie kept a straight face while trying not to laugh. "Come again?"

"You don't know Gremlins?" Andy exclaimed in mock disbelief.

"What's Gremlins?"

He groaned theatrically.

Lizzie broke out in laughter. "Dylan's not a mogwai. Or is he?"

"Not enough body hair," Andy snickered, brown eyes dancing.

Lizzie nearly choked on her last fry. She quickly swallowed some beer.

"No, you're good," the former lawyer told her, still chuckling. "I've seen you handle Dylan. Not many can say that they can. I know he has his quirks…"

She raised her eyebrows and he grimaced playfully.

"Yes, quirks. Adorable quirks that can drive you crazy, but Dylan's the most unique human being I ever met."

"Who needs a lot of work sometimes and is kind of a know-it-all?" she teased. "Sometimes patronizing? Makes you want to slap him over the head?"

Andy weighed his head from left to right. "Ye-eah," he admitted. His lips showed a wide, warm smile, the one he usually wore when his husband was around.

"And intriguing," Lizzie admitted. "He's the best partner I ever had. Nothing has changed for me."

"Good to know."

The noise around them rose again and this time people were off their chairs, cheering for the players on the screens, and Andy gave her an apologetic look as he rose, too. He quickly moved a few empty glasses behind the bar and took more orders, handing out snacks, relieving Edo to catch his own break for a while.

Lizzie watched everything for a while longer. She finally did a quick calculation on her bill and handed the money over to a returning Edo.

"No, no, no," Andy protested. "This is on the house, Lizzie."

"I'm not freeloading every time, Andy."

He firmly shook his head, she was already weaving through the crowds to the exit. A blast of cold air hit her as she left Rafter's and she hurried to her car. Time to get home, snuggle up with Gary, and enjoy the rest of the evening.

XnXnXnXnXnXnXnXnXnXnXnXnXnXnXnXnXnXnXnXnXnXnXnXn

As cold, wet and sometimes nasty the weather turned throughout winter, the season had its perks. Not the shopping mania, the sometimes rather garish Christmas decorations everywhere, the jingles and bells, no. It were the smaller events, like the lampions hanging in the bare trees in a small park not far from their home. It was almost walking distance.

Dylan and Andy came here every year, enjoying themselves, the crowds not so large and loud like in Central Park. Andy had finished decorating Rafter's this evening, putting up a small tree, some lights, but not much else. Thankfully he wasn't one to go overboard with Christmas things, something Dylan very much appreciated. Their own home only had some lights and a tree, too.

They stood together, watching the lampions – all in various shades of white to ice blue – in each other's arms. Wrapped up in a thick coat, an equally thick knit scarf, hands in gloves and a knit hat on their heads they both looked like a walking ad for Arctic expeditions.

A few flakes drifted from the sky, settling on their shoulders and Andy blew out a breath that clouded in front of his face.

"Damn, it's cold," he commented.

"And it will be getting colder. The forecast wasn't kidding."

It got him a light chuckle. "Hey, I like winter. Brings in the guests from outside."

Dylan smiled and snuggled in a little closer.

His cell suddenly started vibrating and he pulled it out. Andy glanced at the display.

"Lizzie."

Dylan shot him an apologetic look.

"No. It's okay. Take it."

And he did.

"I'll be right there," he told his partner.

"New case?"

He nodded. "I'm sorry."

Andy laughed and pulled him into a loving kiss.

"Go. Follow your calling."

Dylan smiled at him, brilliant, open, happy. He gave Andy a kiss. Then he hurried off to meet with the detective for their latest case.

XnXnXn

Andy watched him go, almost able to feel the excitement running through Dylan himself, and he shook his head. A fond smile stole over his lips.

He stuffed his hands into his jacket's pockets, inhaled the cold air, the smile never leaving his lips.

Dylan was in his element. He did what he loved, what was truly him, and Andy knew by the time his husband came home, he would be full of energy, the challenge of a new case accepted, and he would have to keep him fed and push him off to bed if, no, when Dylan immersed himself so very deeply in the mystery and the chase again.

He was actually looking forward to it.

Andy loved him. He loved the light that had returned to Dylan's eyes, the energy of the man, the desire. Working with the police did that. It had given Dylan that part of his old life back that he had always enjoyed.

And that was all that counted.

fin


End file.
